“Let’s put these boxes in the study for now. I’ll sort out where everything goes later.”
Inga stopped in the entryway before she had even taken off her coat.
The voice belonged to her mother-in-law.
An unfamiliar pair of women’s boots stood on the mat by the door. Beside her mother-in-law’s handbag on the console table lay a set of keys with Tamara Vasilyevna’s green plastic keychain. Roman’s voice came from the kitchen.
“It’s better not to take the large ones in there. Inga’s desk and computer are in that room.”
“The desk can be moved. I need somewhere to put my things too.”
Inga slowly unbuttoned her coat.
She had left home at about eight that morning. Roman had still been eating breakfast and preparing to run some errands. There had been no mention of guests, moving, or boxes during their conversation.
Now two travel bags stood against the wall, while three cardboard boxes occupied the hallway. They had been labeled in marker: “Clothes,” “Bathroom,” and “Miscellaneous.”
Inga entered the kitchen.
Roman was sitting at the table, while Tamara Vasilyevna unpacked a bag of groceries.
Both of them looked at her with perfect composure.
“Oh, you’re home already,” her husband said.
“I can see I’m not the only one.”
Tamara Vasilyevna gave her a friendly nod.
“I’ll only be staying with you for a little while.”
Inga glanced at the belongings in the hallway.
“You packed remarkably thoroughly for ‘a little while.’”
Roman realized that he would have to explain.
“Mom’s having renovations done. She’ll stay here for a couple of months.”
Inga stared at her husband for several seconds.
“A couple of months?”
“Approximately.”
“And when were you planning to tell me?”
He grimaced slightly.
“I wanted to tell you tonight.”
“After she had already moved in?”
“Don’t exaggerate. Mom has only brought her things.”
“And received a set of keys.”
Inga picked up the keys from the console table and held them up.
Roman immediately looked away.
They kept their spare set in the top drawer of the dresser. Inga had saved it in case they lost their main keys or needed to leave a set with her father while they were away.
“You gave these to her?”
“Yes.”
“This morning?”
“This afternoon.”
“And all this time, you knew perfectly well that your mother intended to move in here.”
Roman was already becoming irritated.
“Inga, why are you turning something perfectly ordinary into a scandal? Her apartment is being renovated.”
Tamara Vasilyevna closed the grocery bag.
“I can explain it myself.”
“Go ahead.”
“They’re replacing the pipes in the bathroom. There’ll be dirt and noise, and they’re going to shut off the water. Where am I supposed to go?”
“How long will the water be off?”
Her mother-in-law hesitated for only a second.
“The workers promised to finish quickly.”
“How quickly?”
“The work will certainly take several days. Then everything will need to be put back in order.”
Inga looked at her husband.
“Then where did two months come from?”
Roman shrugged.
“We allowed extra time.”
Now the situation became considerably clearer.
Inga finally removed her coat, hung it up, and walked into the study.
It was a small but important room for her. It contained her desk, two monitors, a printer, shelves filled with folders, and a locked cabinet containing documents. Sometimes she worked from home for several days in a row, which was why she had decided as soon as she bought the apartment that one room would become her study.
Tamara Vasilyevna’s open bag was already standing against the wall.
Her coat was lying across the armchair.
“We’ll move this out,” her mother-in-law said, following her inside. “I’ll put a folding bed here. The folders can temporarily be moved into the bedroom.”
Inga turned around.
“Nothing is being moved out of this room.”
“What, are you unwilling to spare a room?”
“I work here.”
“You can work in the living room.”
“No.”
Tamara Vasilyevna looked at her in surprise, as if she had expected a completely different response.
Inga returned to the hallway.
“Let’s settle this without a lengthy discussion. You’re taking your belongings home today.”
Roman abruptly got to his feet.
“Home where?”
“To your mother’s apartment.”
“It’s being renovated!”
“They’re replacing pipes for several days.”
“And what is Mom supposed to do without a bathroom?”
“She can stay in a hotel. She can stay with a friend. She can come here for one or two nights after the work begins, if that is genuinely necessary. There are plenty of options. But you should have chosen one before bringing all these boxes here.”
Tamara Vasilyevna said coldly:
“Roma gave me permission.”
Inga looked at her husband.
“Now this is the particularly interesting part.”
“Because I live here,” he said. “And I have the right to invite my own mother.”
“For dinner—certainly.”
“Don’t twist my words.”
“And don’t confuse a guest with a new resident.”
Roman was visibly worked up now.
“We’ve been married for four years. This is our home.”
“We’ve been married for four years, but that didn’t change who owns this apartment.”
“Here we go again.”
Inga did not reply.
She had bought the apartment when she was twenty-eight.
By then, she had been saving money for several years and had finally accumulated enough for the down payment. She had taken out the mortgage in her own name and gradually paid for the renovations herself. By the time she met Roman, there was very little left on the loan, and she had paid it off completely before their wedding.
Roman had known this from the first year of their relationship.
They had dated for nine months, each living separately, before deciding to move in together.
Roman had moved into Inga’s apartment.
It was not merely because that arrangement was more convenient for her. His rented one-bedroom apartment was far from both of their workplaces, while Inga’s apartment was larger and situated in a good neighborhood.
They married a year later.
Roman had never previously claimed that the apartment belonged to him.
On the contrary, during the first few years, he had accepted that serious decisions concerning the apartment needed to be discussed with Inga.
If he wanted to buy a large wardrobe, he asked where she thought it would fit best.
If he planned to invite friends to stay for several days, he warned her in advance. When his cousin once asked to spend the night after arriving on a late flight, Roman first asked his wife whether it would be convenient.
Things had started changing about a year ago.
Tamara Vasilyevna increasingly told her son that he behaved “like a tenant.”
At first, Inga did not understand where these comments were coming from.
Her mother-in-law might be sitting with them at dinner and suddenly remark:
“Roma, why are you asking whether you’re allowed to put an armchair there? You live here too.”
Or she would ask:
“You do at least have your own keys, don’t you?”
Roman used to laugh.
Then he stopped laughing.
Several months later, he began repeating some of his mother’s phrases.
“I live here too.”
“I shouldn’t have to ask permission for every little thing.”
Inga did not argue with that.
But in her opinion, choosing a new coffee machine was a small matter. Moving someone into the apartment for several months was not.
“You knew about this all morning,” she said now.
Roman looked away.
“Mom called me yesterday.”
“And the two of you decided everything.”
“I decided to help her.”
“Using my apartment.”
“Our home.”
“How convenient to change the terminology when the property documents aren’t in front of you.”
Tamara Vasilyevna intervened.
“This is precisely why I keep telling you, Roma, that you’re constantly forced to justify yourself here.”
Inga turned toward her.
“And why are you provoking your son right now?”
“I’m not provoking anyone. A man simply shouldn’t live as though he must seek approval for every action.”
“He is an adult and can do whatever he wants with his own belongings.”
“He lives here.”
“Correct. He lives here.”
Her mother-in-law noticed the nuance but remained silent.
Inga went into the study, picked up Tamara Vasilyevna’s bag, and carried it into the hallway.
“What are you doing?” Roman demanded sharply.
“Making sure nobody misunderstands. Today’s move is canceled.”
Tamara Vasilyevna actually laughed.
“No, dear. I’m not going anywhere now.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not. Roma invited me.”
“Roman does not own this apartment.”
“Why do you keep throwing ownership in our faces?”
Her mother-in-law rose irritably.
“Family members don’t wave legal documents at one another.”
“When people remember that someone else’s property remains someone else’s, there’s no need to.”
Roman paced across the kitchen.
“Inga, that’s enough.”
“What exactly is enough?”
“This performance you’re putting on.”
“I came home and discovered that my mother-in-law had moved in.”
“Temporarily.”
“Without my consent.”
“Because I consented!”
Inga studied him carefully.
“And is that supposed to change something?”
“It should. I’m your husband, not your neighbor.”
“Then it’s even stranger that you kept quiet this morning.”
He did not answer.
That was the most unpleasant part of the entire situation.
Not Tamara Vasilyevna’s arrival.
Not the boxes.
Not even the key he had given her.
It was the fact that Roman had deliberately said nothing.
That meant he had anticipated her reaction.
He understood that his wife might refuse.
So he had chosen another approach: wait until his mother was already inside with all her belongings, then count on Inga feeling too uncomfortable to make her leave.
Apparently, that was what they called “not creating a problem out of nothing.”
“All right,” Inga said. “Tell me about the renovation.”
Tamara Vasilyevna became wary.
“What exactly do you want to know?”
“What work are you having done?”
“I already told you. The pipes.”
“All of them?”
“In the bathroom.”
“The main risers?”
“No. The pipes by the sink and bathtub are old. A plumber examined them and said they should be replaced.”
“How many days will it take?”
Her mother-in-law waved her hand irritably.
“What difference does it make?”
“A great deal, because a couple of minutes ago you were moving in for two months.”
Roman looked at his mother.
“Mom?”
“What do you mean, ‘Mom’? They might have to tear up the floors afterward.”
“Did the plumber say that?”
“No. But you never know.”
Inga smirked.
It was even simpler than she had thought.
There was no serious renovation.
Several bathroom pipes needed to be replaced. The work would take a few days at most, after which Tamara Vasilyevna could easily return home.
The two months had apparently been invented because her mother-in-law had decided to combine a minor household repair with a test of the family’s new hierarchy.
“Excellent, then,” Inga said. “You’re going home today. If it is genuinely impossible to stay there on the specific days when the work is being done, we’ll find somewhere for you to spend a few nights.”
“I have already found somewhere.”
“No. You found somebody else’s apartment.”
Tamara Vasilyevna stood abruptly.
“I am not going anywhere.”
“Yes, you are.”
“Roma gave me permission to live here for as long as necessary.”
At that moment, Roman finally abandoned all caution.
He stood beside his mother—not merely beside her, but almost in front of her, as though he genuinely intended to protect her from the apartment’s owner.
“That’s enough. Stop giving orders.”
Inga looked at her husband.
“I’m giving orders?”
“Yes. For all these years, everything has had to be exactly as you decided. Where things go, who comes over, what we buy—all because the apartment belongs to you.”
“This conversation is only about your mother.”
“I’m speaking in general. You act as if you’re the only person who has any say here.”
Inga remained silent.
Roman continued:
“You’re only a guest here, and my mother is the mistress of the house now. Get used to the fact that not everything will happen the way you decide.”
Even Tamara Vasilyevna fell silent after those words.
Inga looked at her husband for several seconds.
Not because she had failed to understand him.
Quite the opposite.
Everything had become perfectly clear.
She went into the bedroom.
“There, you see?” Tamara Vasilyevna quietly told her son. “She immediately took offense.”
Inga returned carrying a folder.
She placed it on the kitchen table and opened it.
Inside were the property registry extract, the old mortgage agreement, the purchase documents, and other papers she had kept for many years.
“Find it.”
Roman frowned.
“Find what?”
“Any page stating that this apartment belongs to you.”
“What does that have to do with—”
“Or to your mother.”
“That isn’t what I meant.”
“It’s exactly what you meant a moment ago.”
“It was a figure of speech.”
“An unfortunate one.”
Tamara Vasilyevna tried to intervene.
“Are you really prepared to do all this because of one sentence?”
Inga raised her hand.
“No. This isn’t because of one sentence.”
She looked at Roman.
“You made arrangements with your mother in advance. You didn’t tell me. You gave her a key. You brought her belongings here. You gave her permission to occupy my study. And when I objected, you informed me that I was a guest in my own apartment.”
“I was angry.”
“That happens.”
“Then why this circus with the documents?”
“So you won’t become confused again after you’ve calmed down.”
Roman slammed the folder shut.
“Families don’t live according to property extracts.”
“I agree.”
“Then that settles it.”
“No. A normal family simply doesn’t use the word ‘family’ to claim rights over someone else’s property.”
He stood.
“You’re deliberately taking this to an extreme.”
“No.”
Inga looked at the clock.
It was shortly after six.
“Your belongings must be packed by nine this evening.”
Tamara Vasilyevna laughed indignantly.
“Are you throwing your husband out too?”
Inga shifted her gaze to Roman.
“After what he said today—yes.”
“You can’t possibly—”
“Mom, that’s enough,” Roman suddenly said.
Tamara Vasilyevna turned toward him.
“What do you mean, enough?”
Roman had already realized what his mother had not yet noticed.
Legally, there was nothing to argue about.
The apartment had belonged to Inga long before the marriage. There had been no investments that might turn the situation into a complicated property dispute.
Tamara Vasilyevna had no rights there whatsoever.
And Roman himself lived in his wife’s apartment with her consent.
“Are you really going to throw me out?” he asked.
“Today, yes.”
“After four years of marriage?”
“You were the one who explained today who the guest was.”
“I said it in the heat of the moment.”
“Did you give your mother the key in the heat of the moment too?”
He fell silent.
“Did you bring the boxes here in the heat of the moment?”
Roman sat down.
Inga said nothing more.
There was no point.
For another ten minutes, Tamara Vasilyevna paced between the kitchen and the hallway.
At first, she expressed her outrage.
Then she tried to portray the situation as an ordinary family quarrel.
“You’ll both calm down tomorrow.”
“Let her make all the decisions today. She’ll regret it later.”
“Roma, why aren’t you saying anything?”
Her son finally stood.
“Mom, pack your things.”
Tamara Vasilyevna froze.
“What?”
“Pack your things.”
“Are you seriously going to give in to her?”
“It’s her apartment.”
Now his mother was genuinely bewildered.
That morning, she had moved in feeling that the matter was already settled.
Her son had given her a key.
They had chosen a room.
They had even labeled the boxes.
All they needed to do was present the daughter-in-law with a fait accompli and wait for her displeasure to pass.
Instead, only a few hours later, she had to zip up her bags again.
Inga went into the study and closed her laptop.
Her mother-in-law had already moved the printer to the edge of the desk to make room for her belongings. Inga put it back where it belonged.
The rustling of bags came from the hallway.
Roman was helping his mother.
Half an hour later, the boxes stood beside the door.
Tamara Vasilyevna put on her coat.
“I’ll give the key back to Roma.”
“No. Give it to me.”
Her mother-in-law looked at her son.
He remained silent.
Inga held out her hand.
After a brief pause, Tamara Vasilyevna removed the keyring from the hook on her handbag and placed it in Inga’s palm.
“You humiliated your husband’s mother. Are you satisfied?”
“You came to live in an apartment whose owner had not invited you.”
“This will come back to you.”
“Your car is waiting.”
Tamara Vasilyevna grabbed her bag and walked out.
Roman carried the boxes downstairs.
Inga remained at home.
Her husband returned alone twenty minutes later.
He did not use his key to open the door. He rang the bell.
She let him in because his belongings were still inside.
Roman entered the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed.
“Mom’s car is full. I’ll collect the rest tomorrow.”
“All right.”
“Inga, let’s talk calmly now.”
“Go ahead.”
“I acted stupidly.”
She waited for him to continue.
“I shouldn’t have given her the key without speaking to you.”
“No, you shouldn’t have.”
“And I shouldn’t have said that.”
Inga opened the wardrobe and took out a large sports bag.
She placed it beside him.
“What are you doing?”
“Helping you pack.”
“Are you seriously ending everything because of one argument?”
Inga stopped.
“Roma, you’re still calling it one argument.”
“What else was it?”
“You spent several days secretly preparing for your mother to move in.”
He immediately tried to object, but she continued.
“You knew I might refuse, so you deliberately kept quiet. You decided that once the boxes were already here, I would feel too uncomfortable to object. Then, when I did object, you decided to show your mother who was in charge of the house.”
Roman remained silent.
“If you had simply asked, ‘Can Mom stay for three days while they replace her pipes?’ we wouldn’t be having this conversation at all.”
He looked at the bag.
“I can fix everything.”
“Not today.”
“What about tomorrow?”
“We’ll see tomorrow.”
“So you’re simply throwing me out.”
Inga looked at him wearily.
“Don’t start again. You’re an adult. Your mother has her own apartment. You can stay with her tonight.”
Roman remained seated for several more seconds.
Then he opened the wardrobe.
He packed his belongings himself.
Not all of them.
He took enough clothes for several days, along with his laptop, chargers, documents, and medication. Everything else remained where it was.
His phone rang several times while he folded his shirts.
It was Tamara Vasilyevna.
Roman declined one call, then finally answered.
“I’m coming.”
He listened.
“Mom, not now.”
Another pause.
“I said, not now.”
He put his phone away.
He stopped beside the door.
“I truly didn’t want things to turn out this way.”
Inga stood in the hallway.
“But that is exactly what you did.”
Roman nodded.
He no longer attempted to argue.
A minute later, the door closed behind him.
The apartment became unusually quiet.
Inga picked up the small pieces of debris left by the boxes, returned the armchair to the study, and checked the spare set of keys.
One key was missing.
The one her mother-in-law had returned that day was lying on the console table.
Roman still had the main set.
Inga did not intend to take it from him immediately. He was still her husband, most of his belongings remained there, and she did not want to decide the fate of their marriage in a single evening.
But she also had no intention of returning to their old life as though nothing more than an ordinary domestic argument had occurred.
The next morning, Roman sent her a message:
“Can I collect some more things this evening?”
Inga replied:
“Yes. I’ll be home after seven.”
He arrived precisely at the agreed time.
Without his mother.
He looked tired.
“She spent the entire night trying to convince me that I should come back and put you in your place.”
“Was she successful?”
“As you can see.”
Inga let him inside.
He collected more clothes and his tools.
Before leaving, he placed his key on the console table.
“So you won’t think I might come in without warning.”
Inga appreciated that.
“Thank you.”
“Are we going to talk?”
“We will. But not today.”
He nodded and left.
Several days later, Inga called a locksmith.
It was not because she feared her mother-in-law might suddenly appear.
After what had happened, Tamara Vasilyevna was unlikely to risk coming back.
But Inga wanted to make absolutely certain that no unknown copies of the keys could open her apartment.
The locksmith arrived that afternoon.
He removed the old lock cylinder, installed a new one, tested the mechanism, and gave Inga a new set of keys.
The entire job took less than half an hour.
Roman called that evening.
“Mom said her pipes have already been replaced.”
Inga smirked.
“Remarkably fast for a two-month renovation.”
“It took three days.”
“I had already figured that out.”
Roman was silent for a moment.
“I’m staying with her now.”
“I know.”
“It’s been fun.”
“Why?”
“On the first morning, she asked why I hadn’t put my mug away. On the second, she demanded to know where I was going that evening. Today she decided I was folding my clothes incorrectly.”
Inga said nothing.
“You don’t have to laugh,” he added.
“I’m not laughing.”
Although she wanted to.
“I think I’m beginning to understand certain things differently.”
“A useful experience.”
“Can we meet on Saturday?”
“Yes.”
They met at a small café near the apartment.
Roman appeared calmer.
He had not brought flowers, which Inga appreciated. After events like these, a bouquet would have looked like an attempt to wrap the problem in attractive packaging.
“I’ve been thinking a lot,” he began.
“Good.”
“And not only about Mom.”
Inga waited.
“She had probably been influencing me for a long time. All that talk about how I was nobody there, how I always had to ask permission, and how the apartment belonged to my wife. At first, I ignored it. Then I began noticing things I had never previously considered a problem.”
“Such as?”
“That the apartment really does belong to you.”
Inga looked at him in surprise.
“That was always known.”
“Yes. But for some reason, I began treating it as a humiliation.”
“Even though nobody humiliated you.”
“I understand that now.”
He ran his finger along the rim of his cup.
“I didn’t agree to let Mom move in because she had nowhere else to stay. I wanted to make one major decision by myself and prove that I had rights there too.”
“You certainly proved something.”
“Yes.”
His answer was brief.
And appropriate.
Inga did not lecture him.
Roman did not try to claim that his mother was more responsible than he was.
He was accountable for his own decisions.
“What happens next?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
“I want to come home.”
“I don’t want you to come back yet.”
Roman nodded.
This time, without indignation.
“All right.”
That conversation marked the first time their relationship began to resemble an attempt to understand whether anything remained worth saving, rather than a continuation of the scandal.
They met several more times.
Sometimes they discussed what had happened.
Sometimes they spoke about entirely different things.
Inga did not rush.
Surprisingly, Tamara Vasilyevna did everything possible to ensure that her son would not want to remain with her for long.
She monitored what time Roman returned home.
She asked where he was going.
She rearranged his belongings.
Once, she called him at work because he had forgotten his charger at home that morning.
For the first time in many years, Roman lived with his mother not as a son visiting for a few hours, but as an adult man sharing a home with her.
He quickly discovered the difference.
About two weeks later, he rented a small apartment.
Tamara Vasilyevna viewed it as a betrayal.
“You would rather give money to a stranger than live with me?”
“Mom, it’s closer to my office.”
“You managed perfectly well to commute from here.”
“I want to live on my own.”
“Of course. This is all Inga’s doing.”
Roman no longer argued.
Inga learned about the move directly from him.
“I rented a place near work.”
“It’s a good neighborhood.”
“It’s all right.”
“Does it have furniture?”
“Everything I need.”
“Then that’s excellent.”
He smiled.
“Mom thinks you threw me out so I would have to waste money on rent.”
“And what do you think?”
“I think I managed to create this situation perfectly well by myself.”
It was the first time they had been able to joke about what happened without irritation.
But Inga did not give him a key to the new lock.
Not yet.
In the middle of October, Roman came to collect his winter jacket and several other belongings.
It was already cold outside. The wind hurled wet leaves around the courtyard, and the first overnight frost was forecast for that evening.
Inga opened the door.
Roman stepped inside, removed his shoes, and instinctively reached toward the console table where he used to leave his keys.
Then he remembered.
“I’m still not used to ringing the doorbell.”
“That happens.”
He collected his jacket.
Before leaving, he lingered in the entryway.
“Mom mentioned that evening again recently.”
“And?”
“She said that if I had insisted from the beginning, she would still be living here.”
Inga raised her eyebrows.
“But her pipes were replaced a long time ago.”
“That doesn’t seem to bother her.”
They both laughed.
Roman picked up his bag.
“All right. I should go.”
“Take care.”
He had already opened the door when he turned around.
“Do you know what the most unpleasant part is?”
“What?”
“She is still convinced that the remark about her being the mistress of the house was correct.”
Inga looked at him.
“Then she was fortunate.”
“How?”
“You ended up living with the exact mistress of the house you chose.”
Roman did not understand at first. Then he laughed.
“I don’t live with her anymore.”
“Then you learned your lesson.”
He nodded and walked out.
Inga locked the door using the new cylinder, turned the key, and slipped it into her pocket.
The apartment was quiet.
Exactly as a home should be when nobody was allowed to move in without an invitation.
